Secrets on the Forest Floor
by Queen-of-the-nerdom
Summary: Immediately following the end of Series 3, answering the question- What next? Sherlock solves a crime. John saves a life. Mary has a baby. Molly is... Molly.
1. Chapter 1

_Prologue_

"Begin with what you know."

"It's not that simple."

"Yes it is. Begin with what you know."

"He's dead."

"Is he?"

"YOU'RE THE ONE WHO SAW HIM SHOOT HIS FACE OFF, YOU BLOODY WELL TELL ME."

* * *

"Begin with what you know."

"Based on your little coroner's report, your own established version of events, and the body that I had to have rather inartfully disposed of, he's dead."

"Is he?"

"Christ."

* * *

"Begin with what you know."

"I don't know what to know or what not to know. I wasn't there."

"Very clever. You've been saving that one. What do you know?"

"I know you came back from the dead."

* * *

"Begin with what you know."

"I laid him out on the table. I opened him the way I always do. I removed vital organs. They were weighed and catalogued."

"And?"

"He's dead."

"And?"

"Just because his body is dead doesn't mean his image is."

* * *

"Begin with what you know."

"I know an awful lot."

"I am aware."

"You read it then? Even though John didn't?"

"I did not need to."

* * *

**The Beginning**

_Pound. Pound. Pound. _

Mrs. Hudson's feet shuffled part way up the stairs before she gave up, turning her head up to call to the second floor flat with its door standing open, "Sherlock- that'll be the door. It's for you."

"I know that it is the door. Specifically, I know that it is our own DI Lestrade come to yell a bit to prove that he's in charge and find out what I know," Sherlock hadn't moved from his cross- legged position, finger's steepled under his chin as he called his pronouncement back to her. "And do not call at me like an errant teenager." Sherlock could feel John's eyes roll all the way from the kitchen where he was bandying about doing whatever it was John Watson did in the kitchen.

"I am not your house keeper dear, let alone your mother. You know, you're quite lucky I didn't rent this place when you got on that plane. I could have. In a heartbeat. Quite a fashionable area 'round here these days…. Even with all that nasty business you've brought round."

"Ha!" But her statement was enough to break him from his reverie, so that by the time Lestrade entered the second floor living room, Sherlock was unfolding himself from his chair. He half turned toward the doorway, rolling his wrist at the newly arrived detective, "What do you want?"

"You do know that if you can hear Mrs. Hudson standing at the bottom of the stairs and she can hear you, it's quite probable that someone that's standing 10 feet and one door way behind her can hear you too," Lestrade stated, scoffing at Sherlock's feigned ignorance.

"Yes, but I didn't want to steal your entrance line."

"I'll believe that when I see it," he muttered, sliding into the kitchen to take the cup of tea that John offered.

The look of affront on Sherlocks's face was enough to require Lestrade to continue without further prompting, "What do you know then?"

"I know all of the things I knew yesterday and little more. At this point it's about rearranging our points of knowledge until they all fit together. I was attempting this task when you chose to barge in and ask for information I couldn't possibly have."

"It's been a month!"

"Yes, and no new information has come to light since the first- _sighting_- we'll call it. There have been no other attempts at communication, there was seemingly no digital footprint, despite the incredibly wide digital presence, and so here we are. We have the image of a dead man plastered on every screen in the country, and nothing else. So, I must attempt to use the information previously available until something changes," Sherlock's attempt at patient explanation came out in a frustrated huff- largely sounding more like he was scolding a child then speaking to a colleague.

"Alright then. Well. In the meantime, you wanna come see about a case?"

* * *

"How's Mary then?" DI Lestrade asked as the trio descended the stairs. He had been privy to many pieces of John's private life in the past five years of their acquaintance, John never having been one for keeping relationship escapades to himself and Sherlock being fairly useless at listening to other people's troubles that didn't involve a dead body. Greg liked to believe that it was between the two of them and their painful normalcy that helped keep Sherlock's mind in check.

And so it was to his surprise that Sherlock turned his head sharply and responded before John could, "She's well. Why would she be anything else?"

John shook his head before giving his friend a hard look and turning to Greg as he closed the door to 221b behind them, "Eh… she's very pregnant. Due at the end of the month and miserable with it."

Greg nodded his head in understanding and opened the front door of the flat, where two cars awaited them. "See you at the station then?"

"What is this Lestrade? I thought you said there was a case?" They were standing in a white room with white walls and clear glass on two sides. Only the shadows from the unlit florescent lights broke the monotony of the room that was dominated by a square table covered in crime scene photographs.

"There is! It's just not anyplace close. Practically Wales, this one is." Lestrade said, with a bit of sheepsihness to his tone,

"Then why are we not in "nearly Wales"?" Sherlock's hands got the better of him, gesticulating more wildly than he would have liked, as he attempted to communicate his frustration with being back in the too cold and sterile offices of Scotland Yard that had too recently betrayed him.

"I thought you'd want to see the photos first. Decide if it's worth your while?" Greg's positive affect was deteriorating quickly as Sherlock's frustration grew. Greg hadn't spent much time with the world's only consulting detective since his return from the grave, but he had been hopeful that this case (unlike the one that Anderson had planted) might bring him back into the fold. Well, as close to the fold as Sherlock ever got, anyway. Truth was, Lestrade had missed having the indomitable duo that John and Sherlock made around. John and his friendship had always been steady, but there was an element missing when Sherlock was gone. Even knowing that, he could feel more of the hair at his temple turning silver as he took Sherlock's show of temper in and attempted to diffuse it. He began to feel the first tinges of regret of bringing them in on this particular case.

"Making those decisions is John's job," and with that curt phrase and a nod of his head, Sherlock exited the conference room, seemingly in search of a cup of coffee, or perhaps other mischief.

Greg turned to John, shaking his head. "Been on a tear, has he?"

John stared after Sherlock's retreating figure, as though he was still trying to figure out a puzzle, but he didn't like the picture it was making. It took a second for Greg's question to sink in, but when it did, John's first answer was a swift nod. "In the oddest kind of way though. He hasn't even been looking for cases since the incident, but he's been… oddly content. For him anyway. He's in and out of Baker Street so often I can't keep track of him. Far as I can figure his full focus is on whoever brought Moriarty back from the dead, but he also won't talk about it. Truth be told though, if you hadn't come by I was getting ready to call you. He needs something else. Something to busy him."

"Well good then. You two can head out on the afternoon train."

"It's not all that simple though, is it?"

* * *

The white row house loomed in front of him. It was his home, but he was still readjusting himself to it. With a sigh of resignation- he was sure this was not going to go over well- he willed himself up the stairs and through the front door. His wife sat perched on the floor (how had he never noticed she always sat like that- ready to fly away at a moment's notice?), beautiful in her ungainliness, folding little bits of clothing that it seemed impossible any human could ever fit into. John stopped in the entry way, struck again at how much he could love and not understand her in the same breath.

Mary's head turned up at the noise from the door, her hair sliding into the streak of sunlight from the front window, "Just finishing up the laundry from the baby shower. I swear, she'll never have to wear the same outfit twice."

With an uneasy smile, he went to sit with her on the wood floor of the living room, beginning to move the piles of clothes she'd made into baskets. The silence stretched between them.

"It's ok you know," Mary commented finally, when it seemed as though the moment might break if it went any longer.

John looked up, locking eyes with his wife (blue! Blue! Brown contacts for their whole relationship, why had he not noticed that she only came to bed after the lights were out? That she was always awake and in the shower before him?).

"What is?"

"That you have to go on a case. I don't like it, and I'll miss you, as I did just get you back, but it is ok. This is who you are. And if you can love me as I am, I can certainly do the same."

John should have known. More and more of their conversations had gone like this since he'd moved back into their home. It seemed almost as if she was flexing muscles that had gone unused in her most recent incarnation of self. She'd know more than seemed reasonable. He'd feel foolish for not recognizing she'd know. His temper flared, (of course she knows!) but he took a deep breath before he responded, even managing a half-hearted chuckle before asking, "Know where we're going too then, I take it?"

"Only because Molly rang before you came home."

"Oh thank god."

"What? Did you think I'd deduced it? I'm good lovey, but I'm not that good," she reached her hands over and patted John's shoulders before using them to leverage herself into a standing position. She looked down at John, a real smile playing on her lips for the first time all day, hand outstretched in a clear offer to help him in return.

"I wouldn't want to topple you," he said as he pushed down on the chair behind him to bring himself up next to her.

"You really know what the ladies want to hear, don't you John Watson?" With a laugh and a crinkle of her nose, she picked up a basket with one arm and tucked her other hand into his. They may not be right yet, but she was glad to have her husband back.

"Wait, Molly called?"

* * *

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"No. No, no, no, no, no," maybe if I say it in a rhythm, he will get it and leave me alone- Molly's thoughts might not have been the most rational, but this was getting old.

"You will be going to stay with Mary Watson. John and I agreed it will be safer."

"No, I will not. I've already talked to her. And _we_ agreed. We will check in on one another daily. We will have each other as our number one speed dial. We will even make sure the other flosses for heaven's sake, but we will NOT be spending how-ever-long it takes you to finish this case in 'nearly Wales,'" Molly's hands shot up in a mocking gesture, showing just how high her frustration level had gone with this conversation, "in the same house! We are friends Sherlock but part of maintaining a friendship between _most _people means time apart as well as time together. We'd kill each other."

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up at her last comment, wrinkling the alabaster skin of his forehead, distracting Molly for the split second she needed for her next comment to come across as pithy rather than desperate. (Get it together Hooper- it's a forehead).

"Oh not literally," she huffed, unaware of the connotations of her comment. "And stop making that face; it'll get stuck that way," Molly turned back to her lab bench to busy her hands, trying and failing to hide her reaction to him. "Besides, she's got Janine to keep an eye on her as well."

"It _will_ be safer this way. We still aren't sure who plastered Moriarty's likeness across the country, and I don't like not knowing. I will not allow people I consider my friends to be put in an unnecessary level of harm's way. With you in the same place, it will be easier to keep track of you. And Janine is not a doctor."

"I do not like being considered something to be 'kept track of,' I am not a dog," (much as I feel like one some days- ugh.), Molly's inner monologue berated her even as she attempted to maintain her cool with the looming detective.

Sherlock reached over and placed one wide palm over her wayward hands, stilling them in an instant. "Please. It will make me feel… less distracted. John as well- he wasn't happy about going so far away with Mary almost to term."

"Well… when you put it that way."


	2. Chapter 2

**The Beginning, part II**

They were in the open air train transfer at Swindon, the age darkened limestone of the station behind them and an anachronistic apartment tower in front of them. John stood, back ramrod straight, his hands in his pockets the only indication that he remembered that he wasn't standing at attention, awaiting inspection.

"Ask your question."

"What?"

"You've reverted to military posture. You are thinking about something and you don't believe that you're going to like when you find out the answers," Sherlock still hadn't looked at him- in fact he appeared to be studying the hideous apartments on the other side of the tracks.

"Why?"

"Why what?" Sherlock finally turned his head to acknowledge that the person he was speaking with was a more interesting puzzle than the two having an affair on the second floor of the building across from them. Then again, the train had also come between them and the apartment's window, so John couldn't be sure if he had actually grabbed the detective's attention or if Sherlock had simply lost the visual plane.

"Why this case," John asked as they stepped on to the train headed west. Sherlock didn't answer until well after they'd found seats and they began to move.

"I needed to get out of London for a while," Sherlock stared out the window, a silent refusal to look at John when he lied to him, even the littlest bit.

"Yes, but why _this _case? What aren't you telling me?" John had known there was something off with the way Sherlock had attached himself to this mystery, "I've given you a dozen options of cases to distract you in the past four weeks and this is the first that 'spoke' to you. What's changed?"

Finally, his friend turned to him, a measured look in his eyes as he made the decision to tell John the more of the truth than he had originally intended, "We needed to get out of London for a while," he began by repeating half-truth that had begun the conversation, "So that whoever brought Moriarty's image back from the grave feels safe enough to make their next move."

* * *

The rest of the trip was taken in silence, as Sherlock deduced the people walking up and down the aisle and John played over and over in his head Sherlock's newest revelation (Was this why Sherlock had insisted Molly go to stay with Mary?).

When they arrived at their final train station, the two still had not spoken to each other since Sherlock's last comment, and might not have if Sherlock hadn't been unable to remember where their final destination actually was to tell the car rental people.

"Littledean, Mitcheldean, Ruardean- I don't know which of them we're heading to! Really, do these people have no imagination? How am I supposed to keep them straight when all of the names sound the same! Does it really matter where we're going? It's the one with 'dean' in it!" Sherlock's mounting frustration with the small woman behind the desk and his rising volume pulled John from his reverie.

As usual, John stepped forward to take over the tense situation from his friend, "Sorry ma'am, geography is not his strongest suit. Just need something to get us a couple hundred miles and back. No, we won't be going to Wales. Yes, here's my license." John's patient affect and charming smile smoothed the way as it usually did with middle aged women who didn't get enough positive attention at home (Sherlock had already deduced her unhappy home from the cat hair on her trousers and the poorly applied make-up) and it was just a few minutes longer before they were getting into a medium sized black Range Rover.

"She was only nice to you because you smiled at her."

"That's generally how it works, Sherlock. People like it when you're nice to them and are generally more inclined to help you," John knew that this was not the first or last time he would have this conversation with Sherlock, "Besides, I thought you learned that with Janine?" John couldn't hold back the slight barb at his friend from a situation that continued to bother him.

Sherlock glared at John through the reflection of the rear view mirror, "I was exploiting a human error. You are saying that I should act that way more often?"

John snorted and shook his head, "There's a difference between being nice to people so that you can get along with them and what you did to that girl."

"I assure you she is fine."

"Then why hasn't she spoken to Mary in weeks?"

"I believe that moving to the country can put strain on any friendship. Statistically a long term friendship between two people that is built primarily on convenience of presence is doomed when one party moves out of the range of easy access."

"Ha! Then I suppose it is for the best you didn't end up gone on that plane."

"You wound me, John," but Sherlock's one- sided smirk showed he knew he'd won the point.

* * *

The small town on the edge of the Forest of Dean looked like something out of a picture book, and Sherlock hated it. It reminded him too much of the Baskerville case. He'd been avoiding any major overlaps from the time he still thought of as "before," but this would be a necessary evil. If he'd calculated it properly, they'd only have to be here for four and a half days to shake the rabbit out of her hole in London. In the meantime, the murder scene here might be enough to distract him from the things he could not control.

"Where are we staying then," John asked, his neck craning around for a better view despite not actually knowing was he was looking for.

"Go find someplace. I need to see Lestrade's contact, so you can let me out here. Text me with the address." Sherlock slid from the car with the grace of a cat, hardly bothering to move muscles over bone as he displaced himself from the vehicle and onto the sidewalk.

John rolled his eyes- of course Sherlock hadn't bothered to find lodging before they'd left London.

* * *

Molly stood in front of the white row house, unaware that she was mimicking John's exact posture from the day previous. She hated things like this. Not being in her own space, being an imposition to someone else, god having to _talk _to someone else all the time. Mary was nice enough and she knew they enjoyed one another, but lord, there was a reason Molly had gone into pathology and consistently fell for tall, dark, and quiet. She liked people (no, really! I do!), she thought to herself, but how am I supposed to spend the next _week_ with someone? (I couldn't even bring myself to move in with Tom!) Just as Molly considered putting down her bag and cat carrier (poor Toby), in order to further wallow here on the front steps, the light blue door opened, revealing a very pregnant Mary.

"Well, come in then. I see Sherlock talked you around."

"Was there ever much of a chance that I would manage to circumvent him once he'd made up his mind?"

Mary's only response was a laugh as she backed up to give Molly enough space to come through the front door. "There's a room on the third floor all ready for you. You'll be able to tell which one it is by the fact that it has a bed and not a crib. Forgive me if I don't show you up."

"That's not a problem. I'll make it."

"Alright then- well you are welcome to head up and consider that your space for the time being. I sleep on the couch most nights anymore- saves my back trying to get up the stairs."

Molly smiled and shook her head, acknowledging Mary's little joke at her own expense but unsure of how to proceed. The two stood there, Molly waiting for a more blatant cue and Mary waiting for Molly to do something- anything.

"Alright then," Mary repeated, "I'm going to make dinner. You're welcome to join me, but you certainly don't need to," Mary crossed into the living and headed toward the kitchen at the back of the house, "Just come down whenever!"

Molly smiled at Mary's retreating back before turning to walk up the stairs. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.

(Wait a minute- weren't her eyes brown the last time they'd talked?)

* * *

This inn was too dark.

That inn was too close to the main street.

This one is too far away from the main street.

"Sherlock! There are exactly four places to stay in this town! And you have just turned down three of them! If you wanted to stay in this place, why didn't you just tell me that before you sent me on this wild goose chase?" John felt a bit like he was trying to satisfy Goldilocks of the _Three Bears_ but without knowing any of the parameters.

"I thought you would prefer to feel useful."

"I would _prefer_ to feel as though I didn't just waste the afternoon pissing off half of the people in the town by booking and then canceling rooms," John's hot reply was cut off as they approached a large house just off the main square. "Seriously? This place?"

"The bar on the first floor was a frequent hang out of our deceased friend that brought us here. It makes the most sense to stay someplace where people knew him."

"Sherlock- it's not an inn- it's a mansion! There's no way we're going to be able to afford rooms here."

"In more ways than one," Sherlock muttered before turning to John with a falsely bright smile, "Yes, I've been told the deceased had quite high brow taste. Oh, don't look so shocked- we aren't actually staying here. I just want to ask around and they might be more inclined to talk to us if they think we're staying."

"Oh, Jesus."

* * *

Two hours later, the boys knew almost nothing new about the deceased, had been proposition three times (each) and once (together), and John at least, felt a desperate need to shower.

"Alright, back to the second inn then?" Sherlock seemed far too chipper for a man that had just spent the last hours of his life fending off the advances of women that desperately wanted him to pay to them get into their trousers.

"Not just a bed and breakfast."

"What?"

"You could have told me we were walking into a modern equivalent of a brothel," John's voice rose to a shout before dropping to a whisper on the last word.

"Why? It was so much more fun to watch your reaction when the first one approached you. She seemed quite happy with her position. Besides, I rather like their model. Bit of a freelance kind of deal- I wanted to see how it worked."

"One of these days, Sherlock."

"What?"

"One of these days…"


	3. Chapter 3

**The Middle, Part 1**

Early the next morning, Sherlock and John left the small inn that had originally been declared too close to the main street and headed toward their rented Range Rover. John looked at his friend and shook his head as he crossed the street, remembering the events of last night and that horrifically awkward encounter in the not- brothel. He had been so angry the night before that he hadn't spoken a word- not that Sherlock had noticed. "Are you ever going to get over that?"

"What?"

"Putting me in strange situations to see how I react?"

"Probably not."

"Good to know."

* * *

They passed the day interviewing people connected to the dead man, one Charles McCarthy, and found very little of interest. The man appeared to have been as dull as salt. All of the people that should have been major gossips, especially in a small town, had nothing to say about him. He bought his bread on Tuesdays, had pints in the not- brothel on Saturdays, and otherwise kept his head down.

"Was there anything going on in this man's life. Anything at all?" John asked late in the afternoon as they sat down for tea in a busy little shop across the square from their inn.

"It appears very little. We'll go to his house first thing tomorrow morning, though by all accounts there won't be much there. The crime scene in the forest is already three days cold, so it's unlikely they'll be anything of much use there either."

"Was there anything useful from the file at the police station?"

"Oh god no. These people are worse than George. Not a useful piece of information to be found. They didn't even include the man's hand size!"

"Greg?"

"What?" Sherlock looked genuinely confused for a moment at what John might be talking about.

"You mean they're more useless than Greg? DI Lestrade, the reason we're here, one of the four people in this world you give a damn about?"

"Whatever, also, six," Sherlock's response was terse, before he thought again, "No wait, why do you bother correcting me if you know who I'm talking about?"

"I just want to be sure you know who you're talking about. Wait- who are the other two?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

* * *

McCarthy's little house was just outside of town, overgrown enough to look unkempt but not so overgrown as to draw attention to itself. It was two floors of dark brick with a green door. "A quaint house for a quaint man," John almost smiled. So far, with nothing to persuade him otherwise, John had decided he rather liked this odd little fellow that had ended up dead underneath a pile of leaves in the Forest of Dean. He was, as ever, trying to be positive.

Sherlock grinned, "Let's go find out what's underneath."

They approached the door, John was momentarily startled at the mottled cat that jumped down and twined around his leg. He made eye contact with it, surprised and _massively _creeped out to see one blue eye and one brown staring back at him.

"That doesn't…! That's not…! He hasn't got a cat!" Sherlock sounded personally offended that this new information did not set with what he had already deduced about the dead man.

And then both men jumped as someone came to the door of a house of a dead man who was supposed to have been living alone.

* * *

They sat at a small wooden table in the back kitchen, hosted by a small young woman, who poured tea out of a pale teapot into cracked mugs. John still had a vaguely shaken look about him. Sherlock looked more out of place then he'd ever seemed before and nearly ready to crawl out of his skin.

"I do not say this lightly Miss Alice," Sherlock finally said, breaking the silence, "But I do not understand."

"Not much to know really," her voice matched her appearance- quiet, almost mousy. She nearly flinched at the sound of her own voice. "My da and I came to visit Mr. McCarthy last week. Old friends, they were, from some work they did in the Americas."

"You've been here for a week? And no one in town noticed? And where is your father? You can't be more than sixteen!" Sherlock scowled over at his partner- John's concern for the young and weak-seeming had only increased since Mary's pregnancy, in Sherlock's opinion. It was becoming detrimental to his ability to think about the problem in front of them.

"I'm older than I look- I turned 18 last month. I don't know where da went. And when Ja-," Alice stopped herself and began again, "When word got round that Mr. McCarthy was dead and I couldn't find da, I figured I might as well stay here. It's as good a place as any to settle in for a bit. Da and I never really settled in anywhere." Alice's story came out in a rush, once she got started

"Yes, yes, yes, alright then. John I think it's time to be off," Sherlock sat down his tea cup and stood as he pronounced their need to leave. John was so flustered he barely had the presence of mind to say a hasty goodbye to their host- Sherlock didn't even bother with that much courtesy.

John had to hurry to catch up to Sherlock, his anger breaking through his exterior, "You don't think we should, you know, investigate a girl abandoned by her father? That same father who came last week to visit the man whose murder we are trying solve? The man who disappeared right about the TIME MCCARTHY WAS MURDERED? I may not be the world's only consulting detective, but I think I can connect the dots on that one."

"Oh don't be silly. Her father was at the brothel night before last- the man at the bar in the bad Hawaiian shirt with the same nasal ridge as the girl. He came to collect on an old debt and since McCarthy paid him he's been in a drunken stupor. That's five- make that six- days. McCarthy has been dead for four."

"That doesn't mean we should just leave her there!"

"Oh come on then. She's better off now than she has been before, probably since her mother died. Frankly, she'd probably be best off if her father never came out of this particular stupor," Sherlock's voice held no malice; he simply stated the fact of her life as he saw it. The girl was clearly entirely cowed by her father and directionless without him, which was saying something based on the fact that by her own admission her life hadn't had much direction.

John stopped walking, but it took several yards for Sherlock to notice that he had passed his friend. "What?"

"You know Sherlock, there are people that wouldn't like you digging into their families' psychosis."

Sherlock smirked back, "I don't care."

"And yet you didn't say anything to her while we were there."

"Upsetting her would have made everything go slower."

"And so we have growth," John slapped Sherlock on the shoulder with a smile and walked past him toward the car.

* * *

The clock on the bedside table said 2:11 in bright red letters. (Why's my clock red?) Molly shook her head and rubbed her eyes before she remembered where she was. She rolled over, jostling Toby off of his perch on her hip (What woke me up?).

Then she heard it again. Glass scratching, that's what it was, like beakers being slid along one another. (Oh god, Mary! The baby!).

Molly jumped out of bed, glad in the chill that she had packed her warmest pajamas. She was down to the landing of the second flight of stairs before it occurred to her that if there was something wrong, and really even if there wasn't, she probably shouldn't go barging in on Mary. Besides, she was probably over reacting, right?

She slowed to a more sedate pace, practicing the breathing techniques her yoga teacher had been working with her on last week. So, when she did finally get to the bottom of the stairs, she was quieter than she had originally planned. The window at the back of the house slammed down, startling a jump and squeak from Molly, (how attractive, Hooper), and now her heart was pounding again.

"Mary?" Molly still couldn't see her friend (she must be back in the kitchen), when a bulky figure moved into the doorway.

"Mary? Why do you have a gun?"


	4. Chapter 4

_Oh hey all! Thanks for the love, follows, and reviews. This chapter is a bit different than the others because I've been playing with the idea of Mary's backstory a good bit in my head and I wanted to get it all down. We'll be back to the larger case study and the action in the next chapter, but I hope you enjoy this little aside!_

**The Middle, Part 2**

The overhead lights were on in the kitchen, making the whole room seem more green than it normally did (But maybe that's just me, I feel green, maybe I'm projecting), Molly thought to herself. She picked up the mug of tea that Mary had handed her but got distracted by the black gun that caught her eye across the table. Swallowing convulsively, she put the tea back down on the fine dusting of flour over worn brown wood and looked up at Mary, who was leaning against the kitchen counter across from her, doing her best to not look at Molly (Nope, better have that tea). Molly picked the mug back up, wrapping her hands around it as though it were the only real thing in the room.

"Mary, why do you have a gun?"

"Alright then, we should probably," she paused and stretched, thoughts running through her mind and across her face, "…begin at the beginning." With that Mary changed- just the littlest bit, but there was a change. Her posture became straighter and at the end of her statement curled out of her pitched English accent into something harsher, lower, American.

"What? You're not British? Ha! Next you'll be telling me your name isn't Mary! But you have to be Mary, that's who you are. You're Mary Watson, I was at your wedding- your beautiful wedding to a lovely man. You're having a baby, and, and, and…" Molly realized she was babbling and stopped speaking abruptly.

"Well, it isn't my name. No," Mary shook her head and looked at Molly, "My name _is_ Mary Watson, at least, now it is. But it's not the name I was born with."

Molly's stare became more intense and incredulous. She dropped her chin and raised her eyebrows, she refused to speak as she had a distinct fear her voice would crack and she would go into hysterics, and that just would not do.

"Where would you like me to start?"

"Wherever seems most sensible to you," Molly's pitch rose and rose until the final syllable of her sentence was little more than a bubble of air.

"I'm going to bake- do you mind?"

"What?"

"I haven't told this story in a long time. It will be easier for me if I'm not thinking about it. And this dough," she motioned to the containers of rising dough on the counter, "Needs to be seen to- that's why I was up you know?" Mary's accent may have reverted but she continued to follow more British speech mannerisms, and it was unnerving Molly almost as much as the gun on the table.

"Alright then, just…" Molly looked over at Mary, "Can you go back to sounding like you?"

"Absolutely."

* * *

Grace Rhian Allen. That was the name my parents gave me, in the days of my life when I thought I was normal. I grew up in rural West Virginia- Appalachia- it wasn't so bad as all that. We had a lot of space- that's the thing I remember most from my childhood, so much space. It felt like the sky and the trees went on forever, and I always felt so small, insignificant, but not just me, you know? Everything. Everything was small and insignificant in those woods, on those mountains. Maybe that's why… but we'll get around to that.

My parents were fine in the normal way. They didn't make me into a monster, the way some parents do. They just, _were._ And I never really understood them- never really understood anyone, come to think of it. But I knew I wanted to help people. Isn't that odd? I didn't understand them, but I wanted to help them. I had a deep need to help people, to do and be what other people needed. We never had proper medical care, people got sick and couldn't get better. I grew up in one of the wealthiest countries in the world and we couldn't see a doctor because there weren't any around.

My mom died of pneumonia when I was in middle school. Pneumonia! My family got by, we weren't even the poorest family in the county, but we couldn't afford to take her to the hospital. Between the cost of gas to drive 200 miles to the nearest clinic and what the bills would have been… we thought she would get better, until she didn't.

After that, I knew I needed to help people that were sick. I thought that maybe I could keep someone else from ending up the way she did. I knew I wasn't smart enough to be a doctor; at least, that was what my teachers told me. But I could be a nurse, even if it was more schooling than anyone in my family'd ever had before. That was why I went into the military. In the States, that's the easiest way to pay for college. Go into the military, serve your country, then they pay for your schooling. Terribly ironic, isn't it? Go to the military to learn to kill people so that I could go to school to learn to help people.

Anyway, when I graduated from high school, I signed up for the Army. I already knew how to shoot a gun and frankly had had rougher times than boot camp could ever be. I excelled. I more than excelled. All my life had lacked discipline and now I had it. I was the best and I _liked _it.

Part way through basic, those of us at the top of our class were administered a secondary psych eval. You had to pass the first one to get in of course, but this second one was different. More about morality and our willingness to hurt people and our feelings of duty, and the brass found that I had a particular combination that they liked. I had strong feelings of duty, a willingness to kill people, but an unwillingness to hurt them; a sense of morality, but one that was based on a purely internal compass. I was _not_ a sociopath, and that was perfect. Sociopaths are too hard to control, with no morality, they too easily become the enemy. They clarified for me that while I have little care people's deaths, I care a good bit about how they live and their lived experiences.

They didn't want me in the regular army though. With that kind of profile, there was too high of a risk that I would disobey orders in order to follow my own compass. So they made me a deal. I would join their CIA backed, NSA disavowed, unofficial black ops program, and they would still pay for my schooling, which was all that really mattered to me. The army, and everything I did there, was simply a means to an end. And it, the work I mean, was interesting- fascinating, really. I didn't just do the obvious- I also got really good at finding information, and making myself blend in.

Then… I guess I lost track of time. And of me. That discipline I talked about? It was too easy for me to follow orders. Half a dozen years passed before I even realized that I was losing them, just flying past me while I did the work that was assigned to me. I got a message that my dad had died and I'd missed the funeral, I'd gone black on an assignment and lost the entire time he was sick. After that, I stopped paying attention to the towns I was in- I couldn't be impressed. Then I stopped paying attention to the who and the why. Until one day, in Afghanistan, seven years ago.

Did you know I've only missed twice? In all of my professional life I have only ever missed two targets.

The first time was a target in Afghanistan. I hated working in the Middle East. Always hot, unless it was freezing. Sand always got in all the gross bits.

I'd been sent there to take out a friendly target- a British general that was having too much luck clearing out insurgents. The Americans needed the war to go on a bit longer; it was still the only thing driving our economy. We'd set an ambush at the end of a pass, and in the midst of the skirmish I would take him out from above- insuring the continuation of the war and renewed fervor from our allies.

But one of his people saw me- somehow, he must have caught the glint of my scope, or the wind at my cover. I still don't know what gave me away. But he did, he _saw me_ even as I saw him_._ Caught him in the shoulder I did, as he dove between me and my target- the bullet had already left the gun when he looked up at me and I knew I couldn't do it anymore, at least, not that way.

After that I had to get out. I went freelance. The US government was… unwilling to pay their debt to me. And so once again I found myself in the position of needing money, having a certain set of skills, and a willingness to kill people as long as I didn't hurt them first. Even after all this time, I really can't abide other people's pain.

So I moved to Europe. It made sense at the time- there were plenty of places that don't quite exist in official records left, especially in the Eastern Block. Oh, and did they pay well. I made more in those 18 months than everything the US government had ever promised me and more. But it also led directly to the second time I ever failed to hit an assigned target. Almost six years ago, at a swimming pool in Bristol.

There he was- the man that saw me on the top of a ridge in the middle of a godforsaken desert- strapped into a vest filled with so much C4 that if it had gone we all would have been dead. I couldn't do it. His face was burned into my brain and I couldn't do it, I knew that even if I got the order to shoot I wouldn't be able to pull the trigger. So I sent a text, and made sure the villain at the center of the drama got a phone call he couldn't refuse. And so one man was responsible for both of the times I failed to complete my mission and remove a target.

When I left the pool, Agent Grace Rhian Allen disappeared. I was good at it. I got on the 040 headed east and didn't get off until I was in London- not a bad place to disappear. I walked. And walked. And walked. I thought about what I wanted to do with the rest of my life, and ended up in Chiswick Cemetery where I found my new name.

Little Mary Morstan was buried next to her parents, must've been a car accident. She'd never had a chance to make mistakes. So I thought I'd be her. I'd make her mistakes, because I couldn't live with mine anymore.

* * *

A tear dripped down the end of Mary's nose and threatened to splash onto the dough she was kneading. Molly sat down her mug of tea that had gone cold over the course of Mary's story and rose, causing Mary to jerk and turn.

"Sorry, some habits die hard," Mary said, swiping at her face with the back of her hand.

Molly approached Mary carefully, the way she might a cornered animal- her hands raised half way as she slowly slid around the table.

Molly swallowed once when she reached an arm's distance from Mary before finally getting up the courage to ask, "Can I hug you?"

"Oh, absolutely."


	5. Chapter 5

**The Middle, Part 2**

John woke to the sound of his text message alert.

'_Don't let Sherlock come home. Love you. –M'_

John crushed his eyes closed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was not sure he wanted to know what was going on, but he knew he would inevitably find out. The sky outside had just barely begun to turn blue from the rising sun. It was too early for this. Whatever _this_ turned out to be. (Damn Moriarty's reappearing hide.)

'_K. Love you and the bump. –J" _

He didn't like the idea that Mary might know more about Sherlock's plan that he did. But he had to trust one of them- and if he trusted one, he had to trust the other. It was strange how the two of them had become such a pair. After the debacle at Appledore,. John had begun to really understand just how similar the two were, and really, what had he expected? So much had changed, but so much had stayed the same. When he had run away from his marriage last summer and gone back to Baker Street, Sherlock had been there for him, but he had also made clear that he thought of John's actions as a weakness. "_I mean really John. She didn't shoot _you." Ha!

Within moments there was crashing from the adjoining room. John had long since learned that there was no sleeping in the same room as Sherlock- not even when they were traveling. The man had no notion of what sane hours were. John also knew that if he didn't get up soon Sherlock would have the whole inn at the door and probably both of them kicked out. He rubbed his eyes again and looked at the wall where the noise was coming from.

Definitely too early for this.

It wasn't much later that John was standing outside Sherlock's door, hastily dressed and desperately trying to not make eye contact with the three people in pyjamas that had opened their doors to glare at him.

"Sherlock! Let me in," he growled at the door.

"Ah, yes," the door swung open and smacked the wall behind it with force. "John. Time to be going. I'm all packed up, let's leave." (So it's going to be a manic morning. Excellent.)

"Sherlock," John tried his most calming voice as he walked into the room and sat on the mattress, which was in pieces- bedding spread across the room, bits of paper _stuck to the wall?_ Sherlock paced up and down the length the room as fast as his legs would take him, agitated beyond normal.

"What's the matter? First I get a text from Mary that we need to stay here, then you're tearing apart your room, and now we're leaving? Without finishing the case?"

Sherlock stopped pacing and bent his head until his face was just inches from John's.

"Mary texted? You're sure she texted, didn't call?"

"Yes, I think I know whether I spoke to my wife this morning," Sherlock resumed his pacing, but he had slowed, become more thoughtful.

"Excellent," he declared after a moment, "Then we can stay."

John's face must have conveyed his confusion because Sherlock shot him a look of annoyance and elaborated on his comments from before.

"Molly called this morning. She _called_! She knows better than to call," Sherlock narrowed his eyes and dropped into the chair in the corner of the room. "I thought something important must have happened last night. But Mary knows better."

"Well, did you answer it?"

"What?"

"Did you answer the phone when Molly called?"

"No, of course not," Sherlock's look of incredulity made John chuckle. "What? Why would I answer? If there was a problem, which is what I was led to believe by the phone call itself, we would have had to go back to London immediately regardless of what she had to say." John continued until his chuckle had turned into a full blown laugh.

"What are you laughing at?!"

"You, Sherlock. Just. You."

* * *

Molly put down the phone on the table next to the couch with a sigh. (Foolish, foolish girl.)

(Should have texted).

(Except now I can't because I don't want to look clingy.)

(But I need to talk to him. That's not clingy? This is important).

(Crap).

Molly's head cocked back and forth with each statement in her mind. Working on the deep breathing she'd learned from that very nice yoga class last week, she tried to think clearly about what she even wanted to say to Sherlock if she did text him.

By the time Mary had gotten done telling her story and the two had had a good cry, it was too late, or maybe too early, to go back to bed. Molly had retreated into the living room with her tea. She'd spent the last hour listening to the sounds of Mary baking in the kitchen, taking in the domestic sights and smells that were anachronistic to the tale she'd been told about Mary's history.

(It does make some sense though- right?)

(Ugh.)

Molly heard Mary's laugh from the kitchen doorway.

"Do I look that absurd?"

"No, not at all," Mary laughed again, "Your thoughts just run across your face when you're thinking."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Molly waived her hand at Mary, "Need any help?"

"Just with the eating., bread's done."

"Now that I can do," Molly stood up, forgetting her phone on the table behind her as she crossed into the kitchen.

* * *

"What!?"

John laughed and laughed.

"Oh, nevermind. Let's get going," Sherlock stood and headed to the door.

"Wait," John finally choked out, laughing even harder.

"Oh, what now," Sherlock's annoyance had grown to point at which he almost couldn't bring himself to stop before opening the door.

"Your pants, Sherlock," John was nearly howling with laughter, "You have to put on your pants."

* * *

"What did you want to talk to Sherlock about?"

Mary broke their companionable silence gently, almost afraid of what Molly's answer would be.

"I… just. Uhm. Wanted… you know. To see…"

"To find out if he knows what you know?"

"Yes," Molly sighed her answer. "I probably should have asked you first."

"It's fine. And, he does know. Too bloody smart that one is. He figured it out a long time ago."

"Does John know?"

Mary paused just long enough for Molly to be able to guess the answer for herself, "He knows some of it. The rest of it he doesn't want to know, and I'm not going to force it on him," Mary looked at her hands, spread out across the table.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I put all this on you."

"Mary Elizabeth Morstan Watson. You. Know. Better. If I hadn't wanted to know, I wouldn't have asked."

A soft smile played across Mary's face, turning up one side of her mouth. She almost looked like she believed the younger woman.

"But that's not the only reason I wanted to talk to him." Mary raised her eyebrows.

"I know we got caught up in talking, but don't think I forgot." Mary's eyebrows went a bit higher and she began to smile in earnest.

"What was that noise?"

"That Molly, is what we are going to find out."

* * *

Hi all! Sorry this is a bit short/ transition-y, but I thought a bit of fun would be nice. Also, if you can't tell, I don't ship much in this fandom, but if I ship anything it's Sherlolly. That won't be a major point of this story, but it might help you read into some of the subtext. :)

Thanks for all of the love/ reviews- you are all the best!


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